


Your next station stop will be Newark Northgate

by etal



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 20:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/pseuds/etal
Summary: This is a story featuring Charmie phone sex just north of Peterborough, written for the weekend #cmbyn heart eyes writing challenge, inspired by a monstrous journey I had last week and @rainbowdazzle‘s romantic impression of what British rail travel might be like versus the reality.(Also, I am in it. See if you can spot me.)





	Your next station stop will be Newark Northgate

“It’s a nice story Tim, but I’d say it’s more ‘wry smile’ than ‘funny’.”

“Oh fuck yoooou Armie, you know I only mentioned it so I had an excuse to call.”

“You don’t need an excuse.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing with your voice,” Tim mutters, lower, “there’s people all round.”

“You love it.”

“This train,” Tim swipes at the murky glass of the window into the darkening evening, uncovering a view of heaped warehouses and a sinister looking hut by the side of the tracks, “hasn’t moved for about 10 minutes I just realised.”

The train intercom does some throat-clearing and a voice which sounds like it’s coming from a place of infinite torture and universal pain far, far underground, comes rattling through, although only every third or so word is audible.

"'pologise ... signal... delay to your..."

“Oh shit, sounds like we’re stuck again,” Tim sighs. “I should be nearly there according to the schedule.”

“Where you headed?”

“Out of London, going north to a place called Alnwick, only you say it Ann-ick or they kill you, apparently.”

“Why?” Tim can hear the sounds of Armie moving around, getting dressed. He closes his eyes for a second and misses New York, fierce and hard.

“ _King_ stuff. Atmosphere. Hotspur’s family – you know - come from there. We’re going to have a look about the castle, get the feeling you know?"

“We?”

“Tom and me.”

“Oh yes?”

“I was going to fly with him, I should have flown but someone said the train had cool views of--”

“So have we been talking long enough for you to be hard for me Tim?”

There it is. And he is, of course.

“Can you touch yourself, where you are?”

“No.” No way, there’s a lady with a baby just across the way; a business guy with a laptop just up the aisle, both engrossed but too close. Tim likes risk, or, rather, he likes Armie liking risk, but he doesn’t want to upset anybody.

“Well, find somewhere then. Quick.”

**

“All the lavatorial facilities in First Class are out of order I’m afraid Sir. The nearest is further down the train past Coach F.” Weird how Brits in the service industries can say things in an amazingly polite way and still give you the very clear message that they could give less of a fuck than you can possibly imagine that your customer needs are met.

“Gotcha.” Tim sets off down the train. This is a dangerous business. Since Oscar night he’s been in a world which he privately thinks of as being like a perpetual episode of _The Walking Dead_ , in that you can survive and get around if you blend in and walk very quietly through crowds without getting noticed, but if just one of them spots you they will bring the whole lot of them down on you and then you’re fucked and they won’t leave you alone until they’ve pulled out your guts and eaten them in front of your eyes, or at least made you stand and smile for a million selfies. He manoeuvres his way through the restaurant car where there’s a long queue and the counter guy is trying to explain that he’s got nothing left but 3 Twixes and 10 cans of Stella. Everyone is so busy muttering and tutting that no-one clocks him. The next carriage he comes to is warm and calm and there are lots of spare seats.

“Armie?” he says, “I think I’ve found a spot but I’ll have to be quiet.”

“Good. I’ll enjoy listening to you try to be quiet.”

He slides down into a seat and gets comfy, arranges his hoodie over his lap and says, “It’s last helicopter out of Saigon shit around here. I thought English trains would be like the Orient Express, everyone in evening dress. OK, buddy, hit me.”

“Sooooo, I’ve got…”

“ _Excuse_ me.” Tim is startled by the appearance of a lady looking round at him from the seat in front. She isn’t wearing glasses but she gives the impression that she is. She’s got her hair in this crazy kind of bun with a pen sticking straight up out of it and she looks really pissed, like a mad librarian. She points with obnoxious deliberateness to the sign on the window which is a picture of a phone with a big red line through it. “This,” she says in a mean slytherin-y whisper, “is the designated _quiet_ coach. Which means no ringing all your friends from here to Edinburgh, please.”

“Sure, sure, sorry, I’ll just…” he gathers himself up, relieved that he hadn’t got further than popping his top button and starts to head out when she looks round again and stares hard at him. He stops just in case she needs to whisper-yell at him for something else but she stutters, “Oh gosh, but aren’t you…?” and it looks like she might start to cry which is always really problematic, but luckily she just blushes like a maniac and whips back round out of view.

Tim gets out while the going’s good, with Armie’s hysterical laughter in his ear, “shut up, shut up, not helping Armie,” barrels through the divide between E and F and there, thank god, is the bathroom.

The door slides open and a guy comes out muttering to himself and zipping up. Tim is almost thinking about backing out when he hears Armie say ”I’m waiting..” in his lowest, sternest tone and he heads on into what turns out to be the nastiest possible room.

It’s a tiny slice of hell, lit by a blinking fluorescent light of wince-inducing brightness, which shows him his own face looking haunted and drained in the dim, scratched mirror even though he _knows_ he’s looking good after all the pre-shoot primping. Wet scrags of paper of indeterminate colour lump on the floor; the sanitary bin is overflowing and there’s a folded diaper wedging it open; the general smell is cut through with a vile lemony sharpness which at least has the virtue of gesturing towards a memory of something clean. He thinks longingly of his seat back in First Class: his book, his little picnic from the Mount Street Deli, his pillow.

“waiting…”

Tim locks the door behind him. The train gives a sudden jolt, slopping liquid from the half-filled sink onto the floor, a nasty soup of soapy water, cigarette butts and clods of tissue, over his new sneakers.

“Oh ew, Armie, I can’t, seriously it’s gross in here.”

“I don’t care how dirty it is. You too fancy for me now, all those new princes you’re hanging with?”

“You know I…”

“You always look clean these days, like nothing can touch you. But I can, can’t I? I can rough you up a bit. Are you ready?”

Tim turns so his back is against the window and leans against the wall, trying hard not to touch any surface because there’s dirty talk and then there’s actual E. coli. He tugs his loose pants down and takes a hold of his cock, closes his eyes and lets Armie’s voice in his ear become the only thing that matters. He’s surrendered himself to Armie’s deep rumble of instruction so many times now that he snaps into it without a fight. Armie’s had him like this hundreds of times, nothing but Armie’s voice and his own fist and the memories of closer contact. Armie’s made him come watching himself in the mirror of the changing rooms of Mayfair tailors, has kept him strung out over an hour or two in lonely hotel rooms, trying to replicate the feeling of Armie’s hands on his wrists, of his fingers in his mouth, in his ass.

“I’m on my knees in front of you now.”

“It’s really disgusting down there you don’t even know…”

“Be quiet. I’m going to put my mouth on you and I’m going to lick you right over the top of your dick ok?”

“yes…. you can do that.”

“You taste amazing Tim, you always do, like I can taste all the life in you. Now you can go a little deeper, you won’t hurt me.”

“Armie…”

“I can wrap my arms right around you, cross my arms over your back and reach for your hip bones, god, I can pull you right into me so you’re as deep as you can go…”

“Let me Armie…Armie…”

“You wanna move? You grab hold of my hair then, you like that right? Just hold me where you want me, tip my head a little huh, hit the back of my throat. I’m OK, I got you…”

Tim goes a little wild, thrusts through his fingers once, twice, getting slick.

“Armie, you with me…?”

“Yeah… I’m rolling my big finger…..crack .. and…feel.. you’re …’

There’s a sudden plunge into darkness which comes with a slap against the side of the train like the fucking death eaters are trying to get in. Tunnel: they’re in a tunnel and apparently this is something UK 4G cannot deal with. Armie disappears into a static buzz, far away and unreachable, and there’s no real warmth and wetness in front of him, no strong sweet place to fuck into, but Tim can’t help himself and he’s coming hard, straining in his own lonely hand, hitting the plastic beige wall opposite him and fighting back a teary sob which is half a laugh as well because, jesus, look at him. Oscar nominee Chalamet up to his ankles in piss and jizz, with his heart breaking for only the third time that day.

The train rattles out of the tunnel, at which point the shitty fluorescent lights go out, and the sodium yellow of the trackside floodlights sweeps across the window in loops, and Tim breathes through his mouth in the darkness, trying to keep the olfactory reality at bay for a second or two longer.

“Armie?”

“hey sweetheart, ‘m here. You make it?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Tim touches his lips, his neck, wants more than anything for Armie to be there to do it.

A huff of a laugh. “Me too. God, Tim, I wish I was there with you.”

Tim sighs. “Actually, you really don’t. I gotta get out of here.”

There's no paper to clean up with. He wipes his hands on his pants, puts himself back together and reaches for the lock. It won’t slide back. He goes at it with two hands. Doesn’t budge.

“Shit, I’m late…” he hears Armie say, “should’ve been there five minutes ago. Tim?”

“Just give me a second, I can’t get out, the lock’s fucked.”

Armie starts laughing, proper big Armie laughs.

“Armie this isn’t fucking funny, I’m locked in! What if we crash?”

He almost laughs because Armie’s hoots are infectious but not quite, because he does really hate being locked in.

“Seriously! Fuck!” He holds up his phone for some light and scans the disgusting little space again and he sees a red button. ‘Press In Case of Emergency’. This is an emergency right? He hits the button and after a beat hears an almighty squealing as the brakes grind and the train slows to a stop. An automatic announcement says, in the voice of a dystopian robot, “Passenger alarm activated.” And then keeps saying it. “Passenger alarm activated. Passenger alarm activated.” The driver’s weary tones come over the intercom. “Hello again passengers. There appears to be an emergency in the toilet in coach F. Train staff are on their way but I’m afraid we can’t move until the investigation is complete. Virgin East Coast apologise for the further delay to your journey.”

There are howls of rage outside and Tim notches up one more way in which Armie Hammer has ruined his life.

**

 **[twitter] Armie Hammer:** _hey, anyone want to hear a_ really _funny story?_


End file.
